


Like I Remember You

by jfk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Summer, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 16:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfk/pseuds/jfk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: 'Sherlock and John as teenagers, have a summer full of passion together.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft hears it most nights. 

First is the tapping. It only usually takes one. The noise is a small stone hitting Sherlock's window-pane. The glass rattles in the frame, and wakes all in range. Of course, Mycroft can't understand why the window is even closed. The summer nights are unbearable, the humidity keeping every window open. 

But not Sherlock's. 

Mycroft listens as he rouses slowly, muttering to himself, and pushing up the glass. He leans from the sill (Mycroft knows because he's seen, and he's kept quiet about it) to hear a voice. The voice of his little blonde paramour. 

"I can't keep you long," He says, and there's passion and soul and anticipation fizzing up in that voice, waiting to burst free. "Three hours, at most, but I have to work-"

"Ugh, work. Make it clear which you value more," Mycroft hears Sherlock climb out of the window, deft and precise. He hears the rattle of the gutter against the brickwork, and then the swish of the grass as feet pad across it. 

Then, there's the soft, wet sounds of kissing that no brother should have to hear most nights. Sherlock's paramour brings a light, and a coat. They continue down the ground, Sherlock in a nightshirt and coat, and John wrapped up, ready as ever to be at Sherlock's side. Mycroft hears them laugh, and he hears them joke. 

What he does not hear is the want and lust in the cherry orchard. Where Sherlock gasps against the tree bark and wails as if he's in pain, and God, he nearly is, by the way john's pretty little mouth works, in the subtleties of the tongue and of the lips...the warmth of the throat. 

It's in the disused boathouse that the trouble really starts. Sherlock remembers the first time. 

He'd said 'eyes on me', and that's just what John had done, removing his jumper slowly, and then his trousers, until he stood proud, naked in the dim of a lamp. it was strange, because Sherlock just looked at him for the longest time. As if he'd every idea what to do, but not the foggiest how to begin. 

So John walked over in the dim, eyes on Sherlock, and unbutton the nightshirt, eyes on Sherlock. Until Sherlock was also clothes-less in the dusty air. The boathouse was cold. 

"Eyes on me," John murmured, before he put that clever little mouth of his back to work. And Sherlock? Sherlock choked. 

The first time was in June. It's the heat of July now. 

Some hours later, Mycroft stirs again to the noise of voices, and to the faint shining light. Mussed, sated, Sherlock rattles back up the drainpipe and in through the open window. He falls into a dreamless sleep with a faint smile playing upon his lips. It's not as if Mycroft is a fool, he knows what has occurred, just as he sees it all over Sherlock's posture, in the little marks on his throat. Marks that other seventeen-year-old private students have much less of. 

The first time Mycroft realized that, a thought had sprung to mind. He wondered what John would look like naked. In his dreams he saw the blonde adolescent standing in the doorway to his room, completely naked, and glowing against the darkness, eyes on Mycroft. He rolled over, back to the doorway. And let the illusion be.

 

-

Police Constable Lestrade cannot complain about his job. It pays well, it keeps the peace, n it's something he does enjoy. No, the worst part of the job is the location. A sleepy little village in the north of Hertfordshire. 

And the worst crime is stealing. 

For some kids, that's sweets and games and things of a kind of value. He understands. Sometimes, you have to steal to eat, and he's a soft spot for them. 

Sherlock Holmes doesn't steal because he's hungry. He steals because John is. They go together, around the countryside, and they never take any more than a few apples or so. Lestrade can't understand that, and he's never caught up with either to ask them. 

John isn't from a family like Sherlock's. He's hungry more often, he's cold more often. So they steal together: John does it to eat, Sherlock is hungry for the thrill. The fences are high and some are barbed wire. If you can't scale a fence, and you can't keep up, you're supposed to be left behind. But Lestrade's seen it. 

It was Hurst's farm they'd taken to, and were still picking from the tree when the farmer began shouting. He watched in amusement as they scrambled, Sherlock is one swift movement, up and over the fence, John looking helpless on the other side. 

It was right when Sherlock turned and looked at him. As if he were contemplating the notion of leaving. It was in that second Lestrade found tat the Holmes were human. 

Over the fence Sherlock went. Then, back over with John. 

"Don't," Sherlock insisted, when they were a comfortable distance away. But he was smiling, and had let his eyes betray his heart. John could not thank him, and so kissed him instead. 

Lestrade hadn't the heart to arrest either of them.

 

-

Molly Hooper always fancied herself as a pleasant soul. No, she didn't claim to be very interesting, or very much to look at or talk to, but she was kind, and she was gentle. And when she sets her heart on something, there's nought that can be done. 

Molly works in the shop, nothing special, but it funds her little fancies, and it pleases her even more when pretty little things like Sherlock Holmes find themselves in need of something. He's a funny creature, she thinks, with such a perfect face and these bright eyes that look right through you. They're so pretty, but so cold. Sherlock looks at her, and Molly wants to hide in a jumper, into the warm. 

She can't afford to be discrete, because Sherlock doesn't see, and he doesn't want to see. So, whenever the chance arises, Molly gazes desperately into his eyes, and jokes about tedious subjects. Anything to keep him talking, keep him there, for as long as possible. 

It July, Molly takes the latests shifts and walks through the park to get home. The evenings are warm, and the village is safe, only petty theft ever livening up the streets. She hasn't anything particular on her mind when she hears it. 

And right away knows it's him. 

From the other side of the hedges by the cherry orchard, he's groaning. 

"Shh! --Sherlock, I'm-" Curiously enough, she hears laughter, and words on top of Sherlock's strange, wanton noises. Though, as Molly draws closer though the leaves, something snaps underfoot and she stays for the longest time, just listening. She keeps wondering, did he know she was there? Was he waiting. 

"Please, hurry --I c-can't," Sherlock's gasping, and Molly has never heard him sound so needy --so human in all his life. She didn't think it were possible. Adjusting still, she can spy them better through a gap in the foliage. 

Sherlock, and his paramour (John,, she thinks that's it)are both naked against the evening air, stark against the green grass, stuck together like bad glue on a get-well card. What makes her swallow a gasp is that John had two of his nimble fingers in Sherlock, and Sherlock can't handle it. 

He's feral and his pupils are blown, wriggling like a live wire, making little animalistic noises. It would seem that even the tiniest curl of John's fingers proves too much, and Sherlock sobs, and thrashes, tugging John's dishwater hair in his fists. 

"Someone's going to hear us!" He protests, but he's just as wrapped-up, just as obsessed and involved with Sherlock's tight little ass, and his wailing. John looks as if he knows better, knows he should know better and wants to resist. But even Molly can't look away. Can't stop staring as Sherlock squirms some more. 

"Christ, fucking-" He's babbling, thrashing wildly and right before her eyes he loses it, blowing his load in a few hot bursts. Sherlock is taught as a bowstring, his face flushed with colour. He looks human, even. 

She can't look at him in the same way again.

 

-

Mycroft always has silly themes for his birthday parties. He studies law, and sociology, and literature. And he just loves the written word. The theme is characters. 

Sherlock doesn't care. He's deleted most of the books he's ever read, and nobody he really cares for will be there. Certainly, John wasn't invited. Mycroft is dull in that respect; how he pines so pathetically for that dark-haired constable, but will never admit it. It's ridiculous and stubborn to judge by class. Sherlock has known many wealthy ladies and lads, and none are as fine as John Watson. 

They lack honour, and decency. 

Alas, the celebrations are held at home, and Sherlock is forced to attend. Given his knowledge of literature, or lack thereof, Mother dresses him in some horrifying linen, and then with leaves. Sherlock doesn't know literature, but he briefly remembers history. And Julius Caesar at any rate. 

The night will be long and he knows it, and so it's a good thing John's so brilliant. He climbs over the garden wall, high as it is, in a costume of sorts. It's a tight chainmail shirt, making him look like a less-ridiculous night. 

"That's a high wall," Sherlock says slowly, watching John catch his breath n the hall. John grins. 

"with love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls," He says, straightening himself up. But the reference is wasted on Sherlock, who looks blankly at him. 

"What-?"

"Never mind," John follows them down into the main hall, where a sea of Hatters and Hares and Alices and Angels talked and laughed. Sherlock has no interest in them or this place. He wishes to be outside in the heat, the air that tastes like acid before a storm, and kiss John with all the passion that the sulphurous atmosphere demands. 

He is snatched up before he can protest. 

John, ever a soldier, he follows, watching the reds and golds of Sherlock's reluctant Caesar costume disappear behind peter pans and cleopatras. He follows, but he's soon lost, and fights his way to get back to the stairs. If he can reach the top of the stairs, he can spot Sherlock. Getting there is the difficult part. 

His sleeve is tugged, and he turns to see a glum-looking Eve. "Have you seen Raphael?" She asks, and then shoves him to get to here Adam. John isn't making any more progress towards the stairs, getting forced back by the sea of people. He can scarcely hear over the music. 

Suddenly, in his defeated state, he sees a flash of redcurrant, and the shine of hair like a ravens wing, and he shoves a few more privately educated quests. 

"Sherlock!" He calls out, but is drowned by the noise. "Sherlock!" he calls again, lunging forward and snatching a handful of his robe. 

Sherlock does not turn fully, but he grasps John's wrists and tugs them both through the crowd, avoiding guests and glasses of red wine on his already-crimson toga. The night is hot, warm, sweltering and john has never cared for parties or people or the upper-class, its only ever been Sherlock and the heat is driving him mad he can only think to say-

They find solace on the balcony. Sherlock slams the doors, and crushes John's lips in a kiss. They smooth eachother over in the depth of the kiss. 

"If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this" Sherlock's eyes light up, because he knows this, he's heard it and the irony is delicious. "My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." It means that he wants Sherlock. he wants him and he'll take him now is he has to, all sweat and touches on the stone f the balcony. John relishes the image of fucking Sherlock over the rail. 

He goes in for a kiss, but is denied by Sherlock's hand. 

"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims-" Sherlock nearly goes off on one, but John shoves him over the rail and forces kisses on his pretty little mouth, trailing down his neck. It's hot, too hot, and John has never thought in this way before, all he can think of is Sherlock like an angel, radiant in his colour. Sherlock, who wants John with equal fervour. 

Mycroft has brilliant themes for his parties.

 

-

Sherlock Holmes is in old money. John Watson is not. Sherlock studies privately while John takes night classes. John drinks beer while Sherlock smokes his mayfairs. 

They're a strange pair and have to play many roles: John is Sherlock's audience, his conscience, his merit. Sherlock isn't anything without John's approval. At the same time, Sherlock must be John's motivation, his fascination, his artistic muse and his lover. 

It's terrible, Sherlock thinks, to need and to want. But it's wonderful to be wanted or needed, and the greatest of all to be wanted or needed by John. It gives him purpose and value. It gives him the heart he'd never needed. 

The differences between them make some things difficult. 

John gets cornered by three local lads on the way home from Sherlock's house. They stand over him with hungry eyes. None were hungry for food. 

"John," One of them says, spitting the rods out as if it's bitter-tasting. "I think it's time we had a chat." A wall of bodies seem to build up around him. John looks about, helpless, and feels a little trapped. He has not regrets, nothing to be embarrassed. 

"About what?" He tries to sound amiable. Pleasant, even. But the breezy tone he strives for fails. Their eyes turn dark, and the world gets colder when the tallest one speaks. 

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing with that Holmes boy." He says, imperiously. The way he regards Sherlock, even just the idea, is with disgust and disdain. Says the name 'Holmes' like it's a secret, and like John should be ashamed. He's in love, he's young, and he's far too proud to care. 

But he doesn't say that. 

A crooked one breaks down into a snarl. "I bet he pays you to suck him and fuck him." He shove John in the back. "Tenner for sucking him off," Another shove, "Fiver for a jerking him off," The last shove nearly has John over. "Twenty for taking it up the-"

John snaps, and he shoves back, a flash of anger flaring up in his eyes. They mock him, laughing, crowding again. It's claustrophobic, and John needs to get up, get out and get away from this street and this place. 

"Who'd have thought it, eh?" One of them spits off to the side, frothy with phlegm, and John winces in disgust. "Good old Mister Watson had such a fluttering little queer," The assault continues, and John can't fight back because he's backed up against brick, and he's surrounded and trapped and can't think of a way to talk his way out. 

"I reckon they both have you. How much, then? That Sherlock is stingy. Bet he makes you work for it. Bet me makes you beg and plead for-" John doesn't think, he's blind with anger and strikes him. The dark eyes go wide in shock, and surprise, and then determination. 

"Don't you-" John spits at him, and get's a fist for his troubles. 

"I'll do as I please," The tallest is practically laughing. he pulls up his sleeves and leans back, keen to start something. "And I'll be pleased when you've given me a little something." He grins, akin to a serpent. John is held against the wall, and then forced to his knees. 

"Cor, I bet he loves sucking cock," Squawks the stout one. "Look at the tongue on him," Then, he proceeds to stick a finger in John's mouth, smooth over his lips. 

John clamps down viciously and spits out the finger when it's bloody. 

"Dumb bitch-" John scrambled to his feet and manages to get free. The stout one remains howling, clutching at his hand. 

The sound of his footsteps and the salt of blood in John's mouth drives him home where he's up, and out and away from those who don't understand.  
Later, when he's got a pretty mess of dark hair between his legs, everything is okay. Sherlock makes odd little noises when he works about John's dick, and he draws it out, long and lovely and it' too much, because John's only human and Sherlock looks up. He comes with a hiss.

(They're at John's place, a little attic above Mrs' Hudson's café. Both have to be quiet, because the walls are thin a needles.)

After the sex, they lie next to eachother in the heat of the evening. John drinks his beer, Sherlock smokes his mayfairs. There's a bruise on John's jaw. It's found when Sherlock studies him, crawling all over his lover's body, picking gout freckles and sensitive parts of the flesh. 

"That's new," Sherlock says, carefully. He frowns at it. "From a hard surface, but the force wasn't too brutal." John dismisses it. 

"I waked into a table." A cloud of smoke is blown into his face. beyond the silver that hangs in the air, Sherlock looks at him with deep eyes. 

"Don't lie to me," His tone is grave. 

"Walked home," Unsure, John begins. "Didn't have change for the bus, met a few old friends," Sherlock draws back, looking worried. Looking guilty, Christ, he knows, it's John's fault for being so obvious and stupid and infatuated by Sherlock, the beautiful creature sprawled out next to him. 

But Sherlock says nothing. 

John remembers every moment they lay in that attic on summer nights, and trembling side by side. They were his best days. That would be their year.

 

-

Mycroft is half-asleep when he hears it. Like the ghost of an old friend, haunting rather than participating in the world. 

He turns on his side. There's guilt rising inside of him, and this cold dread in his stomach. Mycroft can hear Sherlock smile as he dresses. Can hear the hidden enthusiasm, hidden adoration as he opens the window, and breathes in the night air. It's warm. The veil of glass between him and John has parted and they stare. 

Something in John's eyes doesn't shine as brightly. 

Mycroft goes to his room, and opens the door quickly. Halfway onto the drainpipe, Sherlock is flustered and excited and almost smiling. But his face turns hard to see Mycroft. Sherlock doesn't know. He doesn't know and when he does it will kill him: ignite in his heart like a thousand suns and burn out of him. 

They stare, locked, for a few seconds. John calls up. 

"Sherlock?" The boy in question does not look away from Mycroft. 

"A second," Fixes his eyes back on Mycroft like he's wrong and he should just dissapear, melt into the floorboards and get away from the stolen moments that John gets from Sherlock. Their relationship is so fragile and impressionable, like glass. And Mycroft doesn't want to put his fingerprints all over it. He merely says:

"Take your time coming home," But not unkindly. Softly, gently. He means it. The endless hours of the night are numbered, and Sherlock needs to get up and get on and get away to better things, to better people, to John, before dawn comes and the cold sunlight claims them both. "I'm sorry," 

Sherlock nods like he knows, but he has no idea.

 

-

The night is silent. The grass is long. Sherlock hasn't felt so strange, so weightless and content and worried since being a child. They're running, for they always run, but never to anywhere or from anything. Perhaps the destination is simply away, and the starting point was them. The eyes that say, the whispers that cut. 

They keep running, and John's ahead. He's leading, and in the night Sherlock watches with an empty chest, delighted by John. Just John, always John with the starlit hair and the eyes full of innocence and lust when they turn on him. Sherlock stops running because John's ahead. 

Because John's running from something. 

"What's wrong?" John asks, breathless, legs bent, hands on his knees to suck back precious air from the sulphurous air. There's worry behind the blue. The way John talks sounds nearly distorted to Sherlock, as if there's something else in his mouth. As if there's a secret in there, crossing it's legs, sitting down. Waiting to slip out. 

"Nothing," Sherlock says, "Keep going," 

The grass turns to thistle that turns to daisies. It feels as if they've been running for miles. Sherlock's heart is in his throat, it feels as if it fall out onto the dark grass at any moment because he's going so fast and gone so far that it'll be dawn before he's back. they've never gone this far, and John's never seemed so motivated. He's running from something, something that will eat him up. 

Sherlock knows he must spend their moments wisely. For time turns back for no man. 

They come to a clearing of trees where the grass is at it's thinnest but a small stream runs into a lake. The stream appears to run uphill, and lillies grow all year round. It's dark, but light enough to see things clearly, see John clearly, who walks with a heavy heart. 

"Wait for it," He goes being the trunk of a warm-looking birch and fiddles a little. Sherlock sweats in the night air, that swirls about him like the ghost of good will. He's caught off guard by the sudden illumination of the place. Strings of lights are wrapped about the trees, and hand taught across the water. They're reflected, and it looks perfect. Sherlock takes his time processing the moment, 

When John reappears, he's wearing less, or, nothing at all. But he does not go to Sherlock. He looks up and smiles, tongue darting out to catch the upper lip. He's proud of his work, and surveys it, before he drifts into the cool green water, slowly, enjoying the feel of it. Once submerged, he swims out further. 

"Towels are on the other bank," He warns Sherlock with a smile, and the secret threatens to fall out and ruin everything. But, since everything seems backwards anyway, Sherlock follows. He takes his time, too.

 

-

The reflection of the lights are disrupted by the ripples in the water. Sherlock wears the cold of it like a cloak, watching the stars stare back at him in the water. They twinkle and shine like John's eyes, but there's nothing hidden or sinister in the white flickers, like magnesium. 

Sherlock is so caught up in the swirls and eddies of the waters that the flash of water on his face shocks him. He paws at his eyes and catches John's eyes with his deepest look. They're both so scared, and only John knows why. It's sat on his tongue, waiting to slip out and break Sherlock's heart. The heart that he'd never had.

"Not much further," John insists, and turns to swim on his back. Sherlock watches him, fondly, desperately, but makes no attempt to speed up. The weight of anticipation, of foreshadowing, slows him down immensely like a dead-weight. Makes him feel like drowning. 

"John, why-" They both stop, and stare across the sky-lit waters. Everything is silent, save for breathing. "Why all of this? Tonight, it seems so...unnecessary." And John looks like he's been struck by lightning, as if Sherlock's question hits him ,like a bullet in the back. 

"I thought it'd be nice." Blinking, John bobs in the water, and he's really beautiful, really fine. But there's something inaccessible to him. If Sherlock were to reach, he wouldn't find John. 

Then it clicks. Something had got John. He's going somewhere. 

No. He's leaving Sherlock behind. 

They reach the other bank in moderate silence. Sherlock can't think what to say, he can't speak because he thinks he knows and he'll say it, accuse Jon, his John, his perfect John Watson of something awful and then the night will end. Sherlock is so breathless, and his mind is heavy with so many thoughts, that he fails to notice the warmth behind him. They're both dripping with clear green water from the Lake, but John is warm. 

"What's wrong?" John asks, running his lips gently over the curve of Sherlock's bare shoulder. It's painted gold in the electric candlelight and in that moment they're infinite. 

"Nothing," Sherlock lies, and groans in approval when John begins nipping at the base of his neck. "Nothing's wrong,"

 

-

 

Everything and Nothing collapses and expands in the night sky as Sherlock sits, silent, together with John by the cool green water. They kiss once, twice, tender, under the electric candlelight, golden in the lambency, in eachother's eyes. Things always look beautiful when they're so new. John's eyes shine, bright as silver, as he glances over the expanse of Sherlock's body. The boy is perfect, for even though he's snowy on the outside, guarded like a fortress, his eyes betray the warmth of his insides, the warmth of his heart. 

  
“I want you,” John says, tasting the words. They both know it, both see it in the heated lances, but he's not sure if he's ever said it. Sherlock needs to know that he's wanted. That he's needed, that he's perfect, and that John would follow him into the dark. 

“You have me,” Sherlock looks at him. Confirms what it's superficial, isn't fake. Their souls sit next to eachother, and their lips meet. While the rest of the world sleeps, cried and remains in darkness Sherlock is content to remain in the light, infinite with John. 

“Can I-” John crawls over Sherlock's body, stark and glowing against their shadows. But he's warm to touch, and soft, and exquisite. John doesn't want the moment to end. But the seconds will always tick past, and it's like watching liquid sunshine trickle through his fingers. “Can I make love to you?” Because he doesn't want to fuck Sherlock. It needs to be more intimate. Needs to linger there in memories.

Sherlock looks scared, just a bit, but he does not protest. Instead, he nods slowly, and surrenders to John's soft kiss. His lips travel, and leave warmth along his jawline, and then down his neck. The white of the skin becomes pink, and Sherlock Holmes becomes human in the solace of the moment. As if he'd not felt anything until that kiss. 

John breathes him in, trace down his neck and to his collar, seeing the green water evaporate into the sulfurous atmosphere. Fear is the heart of love, and John has never been more scared to be alone with his lover until the first cry of pleasure pierces the veil of silence. For a fleeting second, he looks up, and smiles. 

He knows that Sherlock wants it, he can feel it. For now, his blood stirs and his cheeks blush. He wants John fully and properly. 

Bold, John slides a hand down to Sherlock's prick and gave it a gentle tug, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. His lover cries out again, sinful and wanton, and his hips twitches, sending tremors through his entire body. 

“John, I want...” The want is clearly written in sherlock's eyes, in the bitten lip. His high cheeks are flushed and rosy, and John could keep him like this forever, remember him forever in this way. 

“You're beautiful,” John says, he confirms, and gives another flick of his wrist before moving his hand again. The anticipation is mounting in the noises Sherlock is making. Besotted, John says “Eyes on me,” . He only need say it once, for Sherlock can't seem to look away. 

“Christ-” Sherlock shudders as he feels the first finger. It's coarse and perfect too, and the contrast makes it real, makes it special, but most of all it's John, and that's the best part. The pleasure fills him, ignites his eyes, and John keeps his eyes wide and lovely when he adds another, watching Sherlock squirm and pant. 

When they're at thee fingers, Sherlock's eyes are closed. And then, when it's John, and he's crying out, too, the starry night sky appears behind Sherlock's eyelids, and there is simply blue, blue like mercy and love and blue like he's flying when he opens his eyes. It's John, and the more he looks, the deeper he seems to fall, and drown. It's the most breathtaking view from there, and he never wants to move or speak. Or exist with anyone else. 

The pleasure is immense as John's rhythm builds and the stars become brighter, the blue becomes darker. The orgasm builds inside of him, the intense pressure that makes the moment human, and before he realizes it, the stars are back in the sky and it's over. He's hot and breathless and John's fantastic, he's infinite and glorious and everything. 

They both remain for a second, there in the heat, watching the stars fade and the indigo of the night sky bleach. The dark of the water fades with it, clearing at the mention of light, and of morning. But time is irrelevant, hours do not have a place amongst Sherlock or john in that moment. They've not the hearts to be brief, nor the need. 

For they are eternal.


	2. Chapter 2

It was practically morning by the time Sherlock was at his window once more. 

The sky looks like a milky indigo, and the light is so queer in colour that all the leaves look silver. Beneath the pale brick of the house, the pale grass shudders, sick and pale, glossy with dew. Somewhere off in the distance, working-class life resumes itself in the mishmash of birdsong and cars. But with John, everything is silent and underwater, not just the painstaking speed of things, but also in Sherlock's utter breathlessness. He can't breath at all. The pain between his lungs had wrent the tissue there. 

“John,” Sherlock manages, spinning in the grass, feet damp, clothes cold against his skin. When he turns, he gazes on John, and John is a million miles away, he's gone, and in his place a guilty phantom haunts his physical state. Who can't look him in the eyes, who wont. “John, where are you going?”

John looks up then, caught out, pale with grief. “Wha-”

“You needn't go anywhere, you can stay here. We can-...if this is about money-”

“Sherlock.” John sounds far too serous, far too hopeless, and Sherlock won't hear it. His lungs are filling up with smoke, and he'll end up wheezing, gasping out words but it will be too late. 

John's eyes are as blue as mercy when he shakes his head, morose, and kisses Sherlock deep and true and tender. There's something to it, this richness to it that only happens once and it only happens the last time something happens. Like something in John has already been taken, like all of his strings are broken. 

But for what it is, the feeling is limitless, boundless, the window to something new entirely. John tastes like ash and stolen apples, tastes like cool green water and night air. Like the glow of an anarchist and the lambency of a saint, and Sherlock's soaring, he's completely sold, and John's barely said anything. 

The goodbye is dragged out longer than need be. It will only sting more, when the sun is higher and the indigo has faded to hessian. Sherlock slips through the window of his bedroom, and jumps to find John sat on the sill outside. His hair is thick and wet and it looks like feathers. Enchanted, bewitched, Sherlock goes to the open window. Before he can speak, though, John raises his face towards Sherlock and whispers,

“Shut the window.” So he does, fixing it shut with a great tearing in his chest. Sherlock thinks John will leave then, the thought tearing through him like a thunderbolt. A sliver of water from his sodden curls drops down his back. Instead, John sits, and watches him with this peculiar expression. Sherlock looks back, damn near smiles, but John's eyes seem fixed on something behind Sherlock, something macabre that has already drained the blood from his face, and the light from his eyes. 

Sherlock remains still, to afraid to turn and see. He knows, of course, there is nothing there. 

They stare at eachother from opposite sides of the glass. Just looking, which is more than words can speak or touches can feel. Sherlock isn't sure how it ends, he doesn't remember. Maybe John leaves first, or Sherlock goes to bed. No, in his memory, they just remain there, looking at eachother forever.


End file.
